A Life Perfectly Choreographed
by Theilian
Summary: All Roger wanted was a quiet night out with his friends. He certainly wasn't expecting to meet someone who would turn his whole life upside down ... Roger DeBris? Heroics? Oh yes indeed!
1. Roger's Big Night Out

Author's Note: Not mine. SO not mine! It's all from the scary mind of Mel Brooks, with a little help from the current Vienna cast (the one on August 12th if you want me to be _really _precise ... )

_For The Muse, my beautiful, crazy inspiration._

_Proudest night of my life? Oh, yes._

:Theilian:

**1: Roger's Big Night Out**

"Roger!"

Kevin's voice, just that little bit too high-pitched and _far_ too loud, rang through the smoky bar like a foghorn. "Roger, darling, over here!"

Pretending not to notice everyone staring, Roger sauntered over and flopped dramatically down on the tatty leather couch in the corner, the one he and Kevin had claimed as theirs on the night they'd discovered this place. Six months ago, it must have been, and since then a lot had changed – the addition of Bryan to their little 'family' for starters, to say nothing of that wonderful new choreographer chappie, Scott or whatever his name was (Roger had taken one look at him and his name had become strangely irrelevant) – but one thing remained the same: nobody else ever, _ever_ dared sit on Roger DeBris's couch.

Wedging himself in between Kevin and Bryan, Roger leant his head on the smaller man's shoulder and heaved a huge sigh as he did so, just for good measure. "Sweeties, I'm _exhausted_," he whispered in his most pitiful voice, and they both made clucking sounds of sympathy, like a pair of mother hens. That is, if hens could be respectively balding-and-bespectacled, or prone to wearing a little too much leather … "_Actresses_," he continued, hissing the word in a sinister fashion, as though it were the most disgusting curse, "I ask you! And you both _abandoned_ me – "

"No, Roger, we – "

"We'd never – "

"Abandoned me, I say, left me at their _mercy_ … " Roger pouted out his lower lip. It was a childish ploy but one that was yet to fail – and right on cue, Kevin and Bryan became absolute models of contrition, falling over themselves to apologise for their early departure from the rehearsal. Roger was promised plenty of drinks to make up for it, which, he considered happily, was a very good result for a little bit of drama-queenery.

The evening wore on, becoming pleasantly alcohol-blurred, warm and fuzzy. They were deep in an enthusiastic discussion regarding the assorted merits of various members of the chorus – chorus _boys_, naturally, chorus girls being regarded by all three men as a sort of necessary evil – when Bryan nudged Kevin hard in the ribs, making him jump and squeak loudly.

"Heavens above," the little costume designer protested, rubbing his bruised ribs and wincing, "do you really have to be quite so _violent?_ I'll be sore for _days_ … "

"Oh, shush," Bryan chided, unsympathetically, nodding towards the large mirror that filled almost the whole of the wall-space behind the bar. "_This'll_ take your mind off your mortal wound, trust me."

"Oh … my … word."

Walking through the room towards them – well, towards the bar, to be perfectly accurate, and actually, 'walking' didn't even come _close_ to describing it – was the most extraordinary person Roger had ever seen. And in a fairly eventful life so far, Roger had seen some _pretty_ extraordinary people.

"Well," breathed Kevin, sore ribs completely forgotten, "now _there's_ something you don't see every day!"

"Thank the Lord for that!" Roger blurted, without thinking. "I'm not sure the world could cope!" _I know _I _certainly couldn't_, he found himself adding silently.

The young man now leaning oh-so-casually against the bar and trying to catch the barman's eye – not difficult, as the barman was staring just as hard as everyone else – had apparently been created entirely from angles. Extremely tall and ridiculously skinny, he was dressed from head to toe in black. Very tight-fitting black. It made him look, Roger thought, like he'd been put on the rack and stretched … no, not the rack, that was far too unpleasant … despite all the angles, there was something soft, almost vulnerable, in the boy's eyes. While the barman took Skinny's order and mixed the drinks – _two_ drinks, damn it – Roger entertained himself by trying to imagine how exactly a person could be stretched, but _nicely_ … Intriguing. Mmmmm, yes, that was the word. Very, very, _very_ –

"CARMEN!"

Everyone in the place jumped and craned around to look. It wasn't so much the volume of the shout that attracted attention – although that _was_ excessive – or the imperiousness of the tone – but rather, the use of a woman's name. It wasn't that women were banned from the bar, exactly, but it was extremely unlikely that anyone would bring a date here … a female date, anyway. It was a well-known haunt of theatrical types – actors, dancers, directors, of course – and anyone who knew anything about _anything_ understood what _that_ implied.

_There's a woman in here? _Roger thought, and a second later, as the kid in black flinched and spun to face the newcomer,_ Oh, surely not! _

"Drinks, Carmen, _today_ would be nice," the voice continued, "before we all die of thirst … " The owner of the voice strode into view, reflected alongside the boy _– Carmen? Seriously?_ – in the mirror. He was tall, though not as tall as his partner (Roger felt his stomach turn slightly at the thought), broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and wearing a fabulously classy deep blue suit, the sort of suit that screamed _money;_ the sort of suit Roger was determined, one day, to wear himself. One day. When he was famous and adored by millions …

"Drinks, yes, sorry – " Carmen hastily held out one of the glasses. It reminded Roger suddenly of the way he used to offer a stick to his aunt's dog, when he was little. _Here, look, you can bite this all you want, just please don't bite me … _"Here," Carmen added, his voice coming out a little harsh, a little strained, "Just the way you like it. Shall we - ?" He made as if to move away from the bar, towards the relative privacy of a table, but the older man grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back. "Or we could just stay here," he continued, with a bright, brittle smile. "Here's fine. In fact, here's fantastic. Here's – "

"Carmen?"

"Yes, darling? I mean, Eric, sorry – "

"Shut _up_, Carmen."

"Oh." Nervous giggle. "Sorry."

Roger hardly ever got angry. He had a tendency to be completely overdramatic, he suffered dreadfully from what the new choreographer, Scott, had christened "terrible fits of the queenies", and he did rather love to flounce … but he couldn't remember ever being really _furious_. Really _enraged_. So utterly _mad_ he had to hang on to his friends for dear life, in order to stop himself wading in with both fists like the hero of some bloody cowboy movie, for crying out loud … _Roger DeBris? Heroics? Don't make me laugh!_

He wasn't the only one, either. Kevin was tut-tutting away like a little old man, and Bryan was inhaling loudly through clenched teeth, something he only did when he was seriously annoyed. "Poor little thing," the set designer muttered in Roger's ear, "someone really ought to _do_ something … " His voice trailed off as they watched Eric's hand snake possessively up Carmen's spine, coming to rest, finally, curled around the boy's neck. It gave Roger the creeps. From the way Carmen was cringing but trying his best to hide it, it looked as though it gave _him_ the creeps, too. "Why would you let anyone _treat_ you like that?" murmured Kevin, half to himself.

And that was what did it.

Roger knew all too well why_. Is it really so long ago that you've forgotten? _he asked himself miserably. _ So long ago that you can't remember how it felt to be where poor Carmen is now? So new to the city, so desperate to belong, so bloody needy that you'd let He Who No Longer Exists treat you like something he'd stepped in and not only did you put up with it, you were grateful for the attention! _

He sat up a little, perching on the edge of the couch, ready to stand up just as soon as he'd figured out exactly what he was going to do. And it was at that moment that his eyes and Carmen's met, for a split second, in the mirror.

The true stuff of theatre, Roger always told people, later. Thunderbolt, flash of lightning, all that good old-fashioned romantic rubbish. Carmen's eyes went wide, his mouth forming a perfect little 'O' of surprise – and, unexpectedly, recognition – while Roger himself felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. Not that he ever _had_ been punched in the stomach, but hey, he had a good imagination …

_Hello,_ Carmen's eyes said, in the mirror. _Help,_ they added. _Please._

So much for coming up with a plan. Roger was on his feet and across to the bar before he'd even consciously decided to move. And then he screeched to a ridiculous halt, mouth open like some kind of idiotic fish, hundreds of words jamming in his throat and not _one_ of them making it out into the air. _Damn it, Roger, pull yourself together!_

The man in the blue suit – Eric – turned to face the newcomer without bothering to remove his hand from Carmen's neck. He looked Roger up and down – very slowly, very deliberately – and raised one eyebrow. "And _you_ are … ?" he drawled.

"I'm – "

But Carmen, apparently unable to stop himself, got there first. "Roger DeBris!" he squealed, his voice cracking inelegantly on the 'Bris'. He fixed huge blue eyes on the embarrassed director's, and added delightedly, "Aren't you?" Despite Eric's obvious disapproval – his expression was growing colder and nastier by the second – Carmen was practically bouncing.

Correction – he was _literally_ bouncing.

"Um. Yes. That's what I was – yes. Roger DeBris." Roger stammered. "I'm – "

"The dir_ect_or, _you_ know, darling – _Eric_, sorry – oh my God, I can't be_lieve _it, I saw _Candyfloss _last year, for my birthday, I just _loved_ it, and gosh, this is so am_azing!"_ Carmen sounded like an overexcited eight-year-old meeting a movie star. An overexcited eight-year-old _girl_, if Roger was being totally honest. He could almost sympathise with Eric. Almost.

Or at least, he might have done had Eric not tightened his grip on Carmen's neck, cutting the boy off mid-squeak and wiping the happy glow from his face with shocking suddenness; had Eric not smiled at Roger then, a smile like a shark, all gleaming white teeth and dead black eyes.

"And just what, exactly, Mister De_Bris_, Mister Famous _Director_, can we do for you?"

"Well," Roger began, utterly lost and unable to think of anything even remotely intelligent to say, "I was … that is, I – uh, I was … "

"Dear oh dear, for a director you're really not that … _articulate_, now are you?" Eric interrupted, smooth as cream. Poisonous cream. Cream with razorblades in it. "Let me see if I can help you out … _Roger_, was it?" He made the name sound like it was something filthy, something he found distasteful to say. "I'm thinking you came over here for the same reason _most_ people would come over here. I'm thinking you'd like a closer look at _this_ divine creature – " he used his grip on Carmen's neck to drag the boy closer to Roger " – is that right? Am I close, or do I get another guess?"

Roger glanced swiftly up at Carmen, who had gone a sick shade of greenish-white. Again, there was that hint of a _help_ in his eyes. _Rise to the occasion, Roger old duck_, Roger told himself sternly, and suddenly there it was – that _click_, that thing that happened to him sometimes during rehearsals; that fantastic moment where everything would neatly fall into place and he would know exactly _how_ and _when_ and _who_ …

He gave Eric the most confident and (hopefully) dazzling smile he could manage. "Oh my goodness, well, could you _blame_ me?" he asked, mock-incredulously. "But seriously, no, nothing like that. All I was wondering – I am, as your friend was kind enough to point out, a theatrical director … I was simply wondering if Carmen, is it? If Carmen here were by any chance an actor? Only I'm currently rehearsing this _marvellous_ new play – "

Carmen began to say something but Eric leapt in before he had a chance. "He is indeed an actor," he said, "Or at any rate he _was_. Until I met him. And now he works for me." He gave his shark's smile again. "Why? Are you in the market for an … actor, Mister DeBris? It seems a little strange, if rehearsals have already _started_, unless, I suppose … maybe you've had a little difference of opinion, something like that, with your … leading man?" The emphasis he put on _actor_ and _leading man_ was unmistakeable. "Perhaps that's it. Too bad, either way. He's not available."

"Oh? Not even – "

"Not even." Eric's smile was feral. "Let me put it another way; _simplify_ things for you, Mister Director." He brought Carmen's face down to his with another brutal yank on the younger man's neck, and kissed him. Never mind the fact that everyone in the bar was watching, with a curious mixture of outrage and envy. Never mind the unspoken rule that said _do what you like in the privacy of your own home, but for God's sake be careful in public._ Carmen was obviously caught completely off-guard; his whole body jerked in shock, and he gave a little muffled cry as Eric pulled him in even closer, sliding his tongue between Carmen's lips, tasting him; taking his time, savouring him as one would a fine wine. The boy's face went from dead-white to the blazing red of public humiliation in a couple of heartbeats, but he didn't break away from the awful kiss; rather, he seemed to be sinking helplessly deeper and deeper into Eric's embrace.

It felt like an eternity before Eric finally came up for air, shoving Carmen carelessly away from him with a force that almost knocked the kid over; he slumped against the bar, breathing hard, looking dishevelled and dizzy. His mouth was bruised and swollen; he touched trembling fingers to his lower lip as if in disbelief. Eric, meanwhile, turned back to Roger with a horribly smug expression on his flushed face.

"I think I've made my point," Eric said, still smooth, still unruffled, as if they'd been discussing something pointless and trivial. "He's mine."

Which was when Roger punched him. Hard. Right on the nose.

Gasps and shouts rang through the bar. Roger, practically having an out-of-body experience by now, was dimly aware of Kevin and Bryan at his side, of one of them shouting "Run! Bloody _run,_ you idiot!" and pulling him along by the arm.

His hand hurt like hell.

Christ, that was painful! Why did they never tell you how much that _hurt?!_

"I've broken my _hand!!"_ Roger announced to the New York night. They raced from the bar and down the street, Kevin and Bryan disappearing around the next corner in a desperate hunt for cabs. "My bloody _hand,"_ Roger continued to howl, undaunted by his lack of audience. "Oh my good _GOD _that hurts, I'll never be able to move it again – ow! Don't _touch_ it, you blithering idiot – oh, _ohhhhh,_ I'm in _agony,_ I'll never be able to play the piano again … "

"You play the piano?" a voice asked quietly in Roger's ear.

"No of course I don't, don't be ridicul– " Stopping mid-word as he realised belatedly who had spoken, and who it was that had tried to touch his wounded hand, Roger spun around and stared. "How in the name of Gloria did you do that?!" he demanded, amazed.

"Do what?" Carmen still looked upset, but remarkably – and uncharacteristically, Roger was beginning to suspect – calm. He took hold of Roger's hand again, with astonishing gentleness, murmuring, "Here, let me … oh, it's fine, it's just bruised, you're my _hero_. Who's Gloria?"

"How did you get out of the – _who's Gloria!?"_ Roger was astounded. "Gloria _Swanson,_ dear boy, the one and only; Gloria the _Goddess!_ Who's Gloria, indeed. Call yourself an actor!?" It was strange, he thought, how easily teasing the boy seemed to come to him, even now, mere seconds after such … unpleasantness. Stranger still how Carmen seemed instinctively to know that the teasing wasn't meant the way Eric would have meant it. He grinned a bit sheepishly. "I never really _was_ an actor," he said with a shrug. "Went to one audition, oooooh, no. I don't think that's where I'm meant to be, you know, on stage … I think maybe I'd be much happier, say … " He let his voice trail off. Roger was about to make a suggestion – he could think of at least one place where Carmen would _definitely_ be much happier (at least, he would if Roger had any say in the matter) – when Bryan and Kevin came hurtling back around the corner.

"Roger! Carm– my goodness, Carmen! Come on, the pair of you – taxi!"

"Um." Roger said, staring at Carmen.

"Well … " Carmen said, staring right back.

"TAXI!!" hollered Kevin, bouncing up and down impatiently on the balls of his feet. Bryan, without waiting for a response, ran over to where Roger and Carmen were still dazedly staring at each other. He grabbed Roger's right arm and Carmen's left, and dragged them back with him, to where a deplorably beat-up old cab was sitting with its engine idling. They all piled in, three voices competing loudly to give directions to Roger's place. Carmen didn't seem inclined to argue or add his own address – the questions of where he lived, of whether he'd rather be dropped off back home, of what he was going to do now that he no longer 'worked' for Eric – all were suddenly irrelevant. _Of course he's coming home with us,_ Roger decided, as he settled back in his seat. _Of course. No question at all._

"Behind the scenes," Carmen said sleepily, five minutes later. They'd lapsed into an exhausted silence after the formalities of introduction: _Carmen, this is Kevin, this is Bryan … Bryan, Kevin, meet Carmen. Pleased to meet you. No, no, the pleasure's all mine …_

"Pardon me?"

"Where I think I'd be happier," Carmen explained. He looked up at Roger from under his impossibly long eyelashes. "Behind the scenes. Like you." He blushed, giggled, closed his eyes and let his head drop sideways until it was resting on Roger's shoulder.

Roger pretended not to notice the little look that flashed between Kevin and Bryan, the way they both made "Awwwww" faces, like a pair of visitors at a zoo, watching the antics of some cute fluffy baby animals. Instead he let his own eyes close, let his head tilt until it was leaning against the top of Carmen's. He reached down with one hand – the broken one, but who the hell cared, it was all in a very good cause, and he was, after all, a _hero_ – and gave Carmen's fingers a squeeze. He remembered, suddenly, Bryan's exclamation earlier in the bar:

_Now there's something you don't see every day!_

And his own response, which seemed oddly ironic, now:

_Thank the Lord for that! I'm not sure the world could cope!_

_I know _I_ certainly couldn't …_

Roger smiled to himself in the dark of the cab, and let his fingers entwine with Carmen's.

_But hey, I could be persuaded to change my mind …_

**: : : : :**


	2. Carmen

Author's Note: Still not mine! Oh, and thankyou to Squidgy for "pot, kettle, _noir"_ - if I hadn't heard you say it, I never would have believed it ...

**2: Carmen**

… wasn't his real name.

He refused to tell anyone what he was really called, even Scott, with whom he'd struck up an immediate friendship, much to Roger's irritation. After all, it was Roger who'd – _it's fine, Roger, no-one's listening, you can be as dramatic as you like_ – struck the blow that set Carmen free. It was Roger's room that Carmen came creeping into at three in the morning, hair all spiky and eyes enormous and terrified, because he'd had another nightmare. It was Roger who sat up all night with him and talked him through his panic, calmed him down, stopped him shaking … made him disgusting French toast (with sugar ALL over it, ugh ugh ugh) and wrapped him up in a blanket and stroked his cheek with the tip of one finger as Carmen finally drifted back to sleep …

Anyway.

At one point during the conversation, Roger had asked, super-casually, about the name. Because no-one, surely, would actually name their son _Carmen_, would they? The owner of said name merely smiled, and said, "It's been my name for as long as I can remember … I've been called Carmen so long I doubt I'd know my real name if it was up in lights!" Which told Roger nothing at all. He hadn't had the heart to nag; maybe, one day, when they were … closer … Carmen would let Roger in on the big secret. But still … it was infuriating.

And speaking of all things infuriating, about that first-night sleeping arrangement …

Not Roger's idea, if he was being brutally honest. He'd had this vision, in the taxi, of them all arriving home, of Kevin and Bryan conveniently disappearing, of himself mixing Carmen a drink (poor boy had to be in need of alcohol, the night he'd just had) and then … well, not to put _too_ fine a point on it, and then leading him into the bedroom, peeling him out of all that wonderful tight black … and –

Damn it.

Damn the fact that it took half a journey across town – not even _that_ long, really – for Roger's feelings for Carmen to change from weirdly protective to ragingly lustful. He went in the space of a second from wanting to look after the boy, from wanting to be a sort of mentor, to just plain _wanting_ him – desperately, embarrassingly (especially in the close confines of a taxi) wanting him. He wasn't even Roger's _type,_ which was particularly annoying … not that Roger had ever really had a 'type'. Unless you counted 'breathing'.

Damn bloody Bryan, Mister Suddenly Sensitive, who had announced, the second they got through the door, "Carmen, dear … you sit down, have a drink with Kev and Roger here, and I'll see if I can sort you out, bed-wise … as it were!" He'd laughed and winked, and trotted off to make up the spare room.

Damn him.

It was a week and a half since the Night of Bar-Room Heroics, now – TEN DAYS, if you were counting, which Roger very much _was_, thank you kindly – and nothing had changed. Bed-wise, anyway. Which was the only change Roger was interested in at the moment. Carmen still slept in the spare room, just along the corridor from Roger's. But he still had nightmares. Still felt too afraid to leave the apartment on his own, just in case …

Still came to Roger in the wee small hours of the morning, curling up in Roger's bed, in Roger's arms, but …

_Damn it. Double, triple, hell's-bells-and-buckets-of-blood damn it._

_Frustration, thy name is Roger …_

**: : : : :**

Carmen:

… was compulsively tidy. He straightened all the pictures. He seemed to know when one of them was off-centre by even the _tiniest_ amount. Stuck in the apartment on his own when Roger and the others were off at rehearsals, it would seem he got bored very quickly. And when he got bored, he got restless. And when he got restless, he got nervy, fidgety, like a very tightly-wound spring. And when he got nervy, he tidied stuff. Straightened stuff. Dusted, polished, rearranged, you name it …

It drove Roger nuts.

"What happened to the pillows?" Roger demanded, staring in disbelief at the couch. There had been, when he left for work earlier that morning, four lilac pillows arranged in artful disarray – well, all right, lying around all over the place – and now there were …

They were bright pink. Bright pink crushed velvet. With frills. They were –

"OooooOOOHHHH, they're _gorgeous!!" _

Roger sighed. Bryan and Kevin, right on cue as always, were peering over his shoulder. Actually, Bryan was peering over his shoulder; Kevin was more-or-less under his armpit.

"Carmen!!" Kevin shrieked, as Carmen popped out of the kitchen with a proud little smile on his face, "Did _you_ do this?"

The little smile turned into a beam. Roger fought the urge to shade his eyes. "_No,_ Kev darling, it was the _fairies._" Carmen teased. He practically floated over to the couch and stroked one of the pillows reverently. _Kev 'darling',_ thought Roger, trying not to feel jealous and failing miserably, _since when has it been Kev 'darling'?!_ He scowled at the pillows.

"Of _course _it was me," Carmen continued, looking as happy as Roger had ever seen him, "Who else would it be? I found some material at the back of – um – oh." He stopped, blushing furiously.

"At the back of – " Roger, realising suddenly why that pink crushed velvet looked so familiar, gasped in horror. "No! Carmen, you didn't, tell me you didn't – "

"I couldn't resist it … "

"My _closet?!"_

"I was going to show you – look, come and see! You'll love it, I _promise,_ I absolutely _swear!"_ He clapped his hands together in delight, like a child, six or seven times in a quick-fire burst of enthusiasm. Roger couldn't help smiling, and allowed Carmen to grab his hand and tow him up the stairs. Outside the door to Roger's room, they paused, Carmen seeming suddenly shy again.

"Now, see … I really didn't _mean_ to go snooping around in your room, Roger, I honestly, _honestly_ didn't … but I'd _done_ everything else, and I thought I'd – I wanted to – you know, to say thankyou for – well, go and see. Go on!" He gave Roger a little shove towards the door.

It was like a miracle, Roger thought dazedly. He couldn't remember ever seeing his room this neat – it was almost as if it had never been used! Carmen was hovering nervously in the doorway, so Roger turned and flashed a great big smile at him to show his gratitude, and Carmen visibly relaxed. Well, a bit. Sort of. He let go his death grip on the doorframe, anyway, which Roger took as a kind of positive sign.

And the closet was – _good grief. Oh my stars. Oh my stars and garters_.

It was organised. Categorized. Colour-coded. The shoes were all in pairs. And the bundle of bright pink crushed velvet that had been lying in a heap somewhere at the back of it all – well, that was now in pride of place on one of the shelves … shelves? Roger couldn't remember ever seeing shelves in there before. Maybe they'd just been hidden under all the piles of stuff … despite Carmen's many obvious talents, putting up shelves just didn't seem likely.

Expecting to find the boy still lurking in the doorway, Roger backed out of the closet and smack into Carmen. Who was softer than you'd expect, given all the angles … "Oof! Sorry!" Carmen yelped, as if it was his fault. Which it sort of was. "Just wanted to see what you think!"

"What do I – what do I _think?" _Roger regained his balance and his ability to breathe. "I think you're a little _genius,_ darling boy, that's what I think! But, Carmen, that pink stuff – "

"Oh?"

Roger sighed, and went to sit on the bed, patting the space next to him. Carmen obediently sat down too, a little warily. "I'm not angry," Roger began, because it looked very much as though Carmen was expecting to be yelled at, "it's just that … that stuff wasn't exactly … destined to become _pillows_, if you see what I mean."

"Oh." Carmen deflated. Then thought about it for a second or two. "So what _was_ it destined to become, then?"

"The Choreographer's Ball … " Roger began, and Carmen's whole face lit up. Before he could start bouncing again, Roger hastily continued, " … is next month. They have a costume contest and – "

"But you're not a choreographer, surely, that's why Scott – "

"I'm a _director_, darling, which is to say, a visionary _genius_, which is practically the same thing," Roger said grandly. "And thus far, tragically, I have failed to win the wretched contest, but I _had_ hoped that this year – "

"This year you'll win," Carmen said firmly.

"Well, _yes_, darling, but – "

"Because this year you have me!"

"Er … "

"I can make you a costume that'll send them all into fits of absolute _envy,_"Carmen said, turning slightly so that he was staring Roger straight in the face. It was a little unnerving. "I can make you the belle of the ball. I can, Roger, I really can, I promise!"

"I don't doubt it for a second, Carmen love, but – "

"Please?" Carmen took hold of both Roger's shoulders, his fingers digging in almost hard enough to hurt. "Please, please, please, please, _please_ – " With each "please" he shook Roger, just a little bit.

Roger decided he quite liked it.

"Oh, all _right_," he said, trying to make it sound like he was giving in reluctantly, but not really succeeding. "I'll talk to Kevin, I'm sure he'll understand. He usually does my frock for me, you see … "

Carmen nodded. "I wouldn't want to upset anyone," he said, frowning slightly, and then brightening again. "I'll talk to him, too," he went on, "I'm sure I can persuade him … "

Roger wasn't sure he liked the idea of Carmen _persuading_ anyone, let alone Kevin. Carmen was … well, Carmen was _his_. He belonged to Roger and Roger alone … trouble was, Roger had never even so much as _kissed_ him, although they'd been living together now for … heavens, it was over a month! Already!

_Well, only one way to fix that, isn't there,_ Roger thought. _Actions speak louder than words and all that … _He raised his hands, slowly, deliberately – didn't want to make any sudden movements, Carmen was twitchy enough already, no point in just jumping on him – well, actually, there'd be quite a _lot_ of point in jumping on him, but – _keep calm, Roger, you're doing fine_. He framed Carmen's face between his palms, running one thumb along the boy's lower lip. Carmen swallowed nervously, but didn't try and pull away, which Roger decided was definite progress.

He leant closer, pressed his lips very, very gently against Carmen's. And again. And a third time, a little harder, then he drew back. For a moment, Carmen looked like a very young boy on the verge of sleep; his cheeks were flushed deep pink, his eyes heavy-lidded, glittering, almost feverish, his long lashes making spidery shadows on his skin. He swayed where he sat, and for a second Roger thought he was going to fall, but then he opened his eyes again, and looked at Roger more directly than anyone ever had. He smiled, and cupped one hand softly to the back of Roger's head, twisting his fingers into the older man's hair.

_I'm falling, _Roger thought dumbly, somewhere in the middle of the most wonderful kiss he'd ever had, _I'm lost. _He heard himself make a strange moaning sound, deep in the back of his throat, as Carmen's tongue performed some sort of amazing slow spiral, over and under and around ... _Where on earth did you learn to kiss like that?!_

"So." It could have been hours, days, _weeks _later. Roger felt dizzy. "So, we'd, um, better go back downstairs, I suppose, have a word with Kevin about the Ball … "

"Right, yes … " Apparently Roger wasn't the only one feeling somewhat giddy. Carmen got as far as the doorway before losing his balance completely, clutching at Roger for support. "Oops! Getting clumsy in my old age … Roger? Darling?"

Roger wanted to dance. _He called me darling! He did!_

"Yes?"

"You still haven't told me – who were you planning on going as? To the Ball?"

"Oh!" Roger felt his cheeks go red. "As a matter of fact … I was going to go as Elizabeth the First. Queen of England, you know, big ruffle, great big skirt, one of those wire thingies underneath, the whole kaboodle. And pearls."

Carmen's super-fast applause went on for at least half a minute this time. "Oh, my!" he squealed in utter delight, "Oh, that'll be just _perfect_, and all in that wonderful pink, too … Oh, Roger, I promise you, after this, you'll be the talk of the town! Your name will be on _everyone's _lips!" He took a quick little step forwards and planted one sweet kiss on Roger's mouth. "Especially mine," he added softly.

**: : : : :**

Carmen:

… was, Roger decided, ever-so-slightly insane. But it took one to know one.

He was growing in confidence every day; you could literally _see_ it. It was like Roger's companionship, Roger's belief in him – hell, Roger's _love _– had set something free. His gestures had got bigger. There were times, now, when he almost seemed to be dancing, waving his arms around all over the place, when all he was actually doing was asking you if you'd like a cup of tea ...

He had apparently decided, somewhere along the line, that giving certain words a sort of half-French pronounciation would sound terribly impressive. Chic, or something. Roger hadn't even really noticed it, to begin with, but one afternoon he'd overheard Scott accusing Carmen of excessive flouncing – Carmen was, at the time, making a grand entrance down the stairs into the living room, trailing one hand languidly behind him like some sort of silent-era movie diva, so Scott's point was kind of valid – and Carmen's response had been to open his eyes very wide, and exclaim, "Oooh! Pot, kettle, _noir_, darling!" – and the word 'pot' had come out with a French-style silent 't', _pot,_ to rhyme with _snow _...

He did it sometimes with names, too.

And he didn't stop the grand entrances, either. Quite the opposite, in fact; he had taken to making grand exits, too.

Roger kept finding himself watching Carmen, thinking to himself, _look at him! Look what a wonderful, crazy, flamboyant creature you found, Roger, look what you did when you rescued him from that maniac Eric. Look what you did! _

He felt so proud. And only slightly embarrassed.

Carmen had started going along with Roger and the others to rehearsals, the week after they won the costume contest at the Choreographer's Ball. Carmen had been right - _everyone _was talking about Roger's outfit. It wasn't necessarily _complimentary_, but still, they were talking, and that was what mattered. And what mattered even more was the way Roger had caught Carmen watching him as he chatted with some of the others that night. He was sitting unusually still, with a glass of champagne held forgotten in one hand. And he was staring across the room at Roger with a look of fierce pride and adoration that had made Roger feel ... a little strange, to be honest. Unsettled.

But in a good way. It had been a little like looking in a mirror. He decided he very much liked the Roger that he was, in Carmen's eyes.

"I'm going to change my name," he had announced, stumbling through the door of the bedroom at ridiculous o'clock the night - or rather, the morning - after the Ball. Carmen, Scott, Bryan and Kevin, all trying to squeeze themselves through the door behind him at the same time, and becoming hopelessly wedged, stopped their shoving and squealing and pinching, and stared.

"You're _what_, Roger?"

"You're _drunk_, Roger ... "

Roger turned to face them, still wearing his marvellous pink Elizabethan gown, although the ginger wig had long since disappeared. "Out!" he ordered, shoving Bryan, Kevin and Scott back into the hallway, and in the same breath, "In!" he said to Carmen, seizing his arm and pulling him from the crush of bodies. He heard giggles coming from the other three as he slammed the door in their smirking faces, and didn't care. "Going to change my name," he proclaimed, a little softer, and Carmen tilted his head to one side, listening intently. "As of tonight, to celebrate my conquest of the Choreographer's bloody Ball ... and all thanks to _you_, Carmen, my little genius, my darlingest boy - as of tonight, I shall be Roger ... _Elizabeth _... DeBris!"

Carmen took a couple of steps nearer, and swept into a very impressive courtly bow. "Your majesty," he said elegantly, straightening up and grinning, "How may I be of service?"

Roger hiccupped. "Ooooh, well," he began, delightedly, but got no further. Carmen came closer still, his grin gone and his eyes suddenly on fire, and sank slowly to his knees. He lifted the edge of the enormous skirt and disappeared beneath it, at which point Roger's mind shut down completely, and went gloriously, shatteringly blank.

After that, it seemed rather ridiculous to leave him alone in the apartment for whole days at a time. Ridiculous to deliberately create Carmen-less hours. And so Roger decided he needed an assistant. Someone to run errands, someone to organise those things that needed organising. Someone to make sure Roger remembered appointments, someone to make telephone calls, someone to ... well, to do whatever Roger needed doing, basically.

At first he'd felt a little strange, giving orders, however fondly phrased; but Carmen had seemed so utterly delighted to be able to help, so happy to be useful, so willing to do ... well, to do whatever Roger needed doing. _Whatever _Roger needed.

Which was simple, really – all Roger needed, these days, was Carmen. These days ... and more importantly, these nights.

Whatever Roger needed ...

The two of them had become one person, without really noticing it happening. But gradually Roger had come to realise that people hardly ever said his name on its own any more – _Roger _no longer existed; he was _Rogerandcarmen _instead. Or even _Carmenandroger_. He'd even picked up Carmen's overexaggerated way of moving – or was it that Carmen had adopted Roger's flamboyant gestures instead? Neither of them knew any more. They worked together, it was as simple as that. They worked, they clicked, they just ... flowed. They didn't make any sense without the other. It seemed that Roger was somehow Carmen's creation just as Carmen was Roger's.

Scott, watching them sometimes – the way they had a private language all their own, little phrases, quotes, bits of silliness like mini dance routines – would shake his head in amusement, and declare it to be "a life perfectly choreographed".

_Well_, Roger thought,_ he ought to know_.

And then he'd gone and risked it all in a moment of madness.

Bloody dancers.

The play had been like a firework – bright and colourful and everyone had gone "oooooh" in delight ... but it had been short-lived. There'd been a last-night party, more of a wake, really, and everyone had got ridiculously drunk, uproariously drunk, fabulously, hideously drunk. Except for Carmen. Unusually for him, he'd been quiet and subdued all day, following Roger about like a shadow, trying his best to make the older man feel better; and Roger, depressed and angry and miserable but refusing to admit it, had begun to feel ... kind of trapped. Like he was a prisoner of Carmen's anxious gaze. And he started to resent it. To resent the way Carmen knew what he was going to say before he even said it. The way Carmen could predict his every move.

It made him want to ... to yell at the boy, to hurt him, anything, just to get him to leave him the hell alone, just for a second ...

So he had. Carmen had jerked back as if he'd been struck, gone white and rushed out of the room.

And the second Roger was alone, he wanted Carmen back. Wanted him to hold out his arms in that sweet way he had, to stroke Roger's cheek, to make everything all right again.

Roger, furious, had downed another couple of glasses of bubbly, and gone to find an empty room to sulk in. _Can't live with him, can't live without him, why is it that all those old cliches are so irritating but so bloody true? _

And then there was this dancer ...

Roger vaguely remembered him from the pre-Carmen days, months back. He could remember discussing him, in fact, the night he'd first met Carmen – _oh, for Gloria's sake, Roger, stop thinking his name every damn second! _

The dancer was a little like Carmen, if not quite so tall. But he was slim enough and wiry enough that Roger could pretend, maybe, if he closed his eyes ...

"Roger ... " the dancer began, slipping in through the door and closing it behind him, "I'm – "

Roger reached out and placed a fingertip on the dancer's lips. Felt them curve up into a smile. "No," he said, numbly, "no. Don't talk ... "

Staggering back through his own front door the morning after the party, with a headache like no headache he'd ever had before, he'd whispered a very feeble "Hello, boys," to Kevin, Scott and Bryan, who had left the party shortly after Carmen had run out. They were slumped in various stages of recovery on the couch, and as he passed them, heading up the stairs to his room, he thought he heard one of them say, "Uh, Roger – " but he wasn't really listening properly.

Pushing open the bedroom door – and even that took a huge effort, his arms seemed to have turned to lead – at first he saw nothing but darkness. But then his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and he could make out the hunched shape under the sheets.

Carmen was curled on the bed like a little kid, one hand suspiciously close to his mouth; Roger could easily believe he'd been sucking his thumb. He didn't wake as Roger tiptoed over and sat beside him, but he shifted slightly in his sleep, a little frown line between his brows. He looked exhausted.

"Shit," Roger muttered, feeling like the worst kind of heartless bastard. "Oh, shit, Carmen."

He kicked off his shoes, pulled the sheet back as gently as he could, and slid down to lie with his chest pressed against Carmen's back, wrapping the boy in his arms. Carmen stirred and murmured something unintelligible, but he didn't wake. Roger closed his eyes, felt a tear slide down to catch in the corner of his mouth, hot and wet and guilty as sin.

_Can't live with him ... can't live without him._

_Won't live without him._

They had slept right through that day; through most of the following night.

And the next morning, it was almost as if nothing had ever happened. Carmen and Roger's strange little dance carried on, as it would continue to go on, down the years and into forever; the tempo changing occasionally, sometimes whirling and manic, sometimes slow and soft and sad; sometimes the music would falter and stumble, but the two of them would always manage, somehow, to regain their balance and pick up the steps again.

Scott had been right, Roger thought. It was a life perfectly choreographed.

**: : : : :**


End file.
